In a House, In a Heartbeat
by Kronos - KR15
Summary: A hapless pair of survivors pitted against an unrelenting horde of beastial former-humans must learn to cope with the overwhelming odds, as well as their own idiosyncrancies...RP from the year of our Lord 2008.
1. In a House, In a Heartbeat prt 1: Them

**A/N:** _Well, behold, the fruits of our labor; Montgomery Quicksilver and I penned this number out years prior to my induction into the ranks of this lovely haven for writers, so please bear with all of the grammatical mistakes and the like, feel free to point them out to me in a review. Many thanks in advanced, and now, without further ado, our story._

IN A HOUSE, IN A HEARTBEAT…

PART 1: THEM

Monty was sprinting down a broad city street, flanked on either side by tall, traditional European houses. Their sooty windows had been blackened by a fire that had long since passed, colored a shade of darkness that rivaled only the inky night sky that hung above them like an all-encompassing sheet.

Behind him were the sounds of laborious footsteps. The heavy footfalls echoed down the thoroughfare like the rhythmic crackle of artillery fire that comprised their ambient orchestra. They were not zombies, thank goodness, but he knew they would be hot on his heels soon. He had met this group of people only a few hours ago, happening upon them on his way to the train line. The plan was to find the track, and follow it north towards the train station that was just over the bridge. Once there, they would hope to God that by some chance it was still in operation. Perhaps the conductor, or whoever could find it in his heart to take a quintet of unfortunate souls, namely Monty and these four people, northwards out of this besieged city.

"Wait!" The headmost of their number cried to him, a man of business with doughy features, whose previously pallid face was now flushed with exertion. Another man followed closely behind the first, with an older couple nipping at his heels. Monty wasn't going to wait for anything, or anyone. The four following him so closely were lagging behind, and would only serve to slow him down.

"Please, wait for us!" The man spat, each one his wheezing breaths a testament to what a detriment these folks would become. Monty stopped and turned around to look back down the derelict street. The houses on either side were imposing, and they had little front yards protected from the road by a narrow strip of pavement, guarded by aging wooden fences or tall stone walls overgrown with ivy. As the houses continued far into the distance, they, the road and everything else was rapidly dissolved by the fog. It sought to envelope this hapless group, as the undead had countless others. The dancing silhouette the rag-tag group cast was stark against the gray backdrop provided by the thick layer of condensation.

Monty rested his grimy hands on his knees to try and catch his breath. He too was a businessman. While not the fittest man prowling the town, his will to press on made him strong. But even his heart skipped a beat when he heard the indistinguishable sound of the zombies. Out from one of the sagging houses came three screaming forms, who almost instantly caught up with the stragglers and attacked them mercilessly. He glimpsed back at the shocking spectacle, his eyes wide with fear. The familiar sounds of a feeding frenzy rang in his ears; nails and teeth rent supple flesh from splintering bone, the harsh tearing of a woman being disemboweled in one fell swipe across her belly, the splash of her organs and life fluid pooling at her feet. It was a symphony of slaughter. The scent was powerful. Though most of the horrific display was shrouded by the fog, his stomach turned on its head nonetheless. The last straggler remained motionless, terror having snatched control from him before he too was engulfed by the voracious ex-humans. As they fell upon him, he simply screamed in horror. It was a high-pitched, desperate sound that brought goose pimples to Monty's skin.

In a heartbeat, Monty darted down the alleyway to his left. Frantically he brought his crowbar to bear as his heart pounded against his chest like a kettledrum. Quickly he scrambled up and over a garden fence, the clinging ivy offering him no respite. He dropped to his feet before throwing himself against the backdoor, forcing it open. He paused and listened for any sound, and sure enough, the sound of dragging feet was fading. After what felt like ages spent stationary, he figured it was safe enough to get inside.

After forcing an entry, Monty crossed the threshold. He acted quickly to block up the broken door. With some effort he managed to flip a heavy oaken table up on its end and pushed it against the door as well. For good measure he then slid the fridge/freezer unit against it to provide some extra weight. He ran towards the front of the house, and snatched up an unstable looking wingchair from the corner of the foyer on his way. He took great pains to quiet his footsteps against the softly squeaking floorboards. Once he reached the front door he unceremoniously jammed the handle using the wobbly chair.

The house was dark. Night had fallen and it was deathly quiet. The musty scent of mothballs assaulted his nostrils as he went about his temporary lodgings, being careful to tread lightly. Armed with only his trusty crowbar he searched all the rooms while leaving the backdoor shut. The only thing separating him from sharing the grisly fate of his former compatriots was a flimsy wingchair bracing the handle. Easily cast aside for a quick escape, but would also serve as a warning in case anyone tried to get in. The house was clear, to his relief.

He didn't stay downstairs for long, for any fool knew that to remain on level turf with the horde was certain death. He grabbed whatever tins of food he could from one of the kitchen cupboards and headed up to the loft, which, too, bore the stench of moth eaten clothing. Though certainly a breath of fresh air compared to the sickly sweet aromas of a reanimated corpse, he still didn't approve of the previous owner's choice in insect deterrent. By quickly pulling the ladder up from behind him he had made himself safe and out of reach for the night.

He looked around the quaint little loft as his eyes began to adjust to this newfound darkness, and it was full of clutter. Old Persian rugs, quilts of questionable sentimental value, torn sleeping bags and boxes full of what he could only assume to be assorted china and other family excesses. After looking around some more, Monty found an old camping stove, large enough to support one small pot.

Monty thanked his good fortune, and wasted no time in using his Swiss army knife to open the tins and place them on the rusty burner. It sprung to life with a little coaxing. While his refried beans were bubbling to the heated tune of the butane flame, he made himself a dusty pile of quilts to sleep amongst. It wasn't a club med, but for his purposes it would be adequate. Despite his weary body's protests, his mind was still racing from this evening's events. The shrill wail of that unfortunate soul echoed in his ears, and brought a shudder to his spine. Yet the soft hiss of the flame and gentle bubbling of his stew relaxed him, and allowed him to drift into an uneasy slumber.

Monty had slept surprisingly well, although he woke with heavy eyes. Soothing warmth clung to him as he dared to glance at his would-be dinner, burnt to a crisp no less. A rueful smile parted his lips, followed by a yawn. For the briefest of moments he had forgotten why he was holed up in this loft, perched upon a house he did not know. He lay there for a short while; nestled in the many quilts he was sure that some wizened grandmother knitted for her babbling grandchildren. He was enjoying the peace and quiet, and the dulcet song of a peppy bird that was audible through the roof tiles. This relative heaven was broken by a high pitched scream in the distance. Reality tugged him back from his nostalgic peek at the world that was, as the gravity of his situation sunk in.

He stretched before casting his temporary bedding aside and making his way to the hatch, and he cautiously poked his head down to look in the landing and see if it was clear. The long corridor stretched out in front of him with the top of the stairs at the end, going off to the right that would come back towards his direction as they went down to the ground floor. The morning sun had yet to shine through the window at the end of the landing. He realized that it must have been the crack of dawn, and he sought a clock to confirm his suspicions.

It was about midmorning before Monty finally gathered the courage to make his way downstairs; he intended to make this house his stronghold.

There must be some useful tools in the garden shed he had spied in his rush for entry, and the wood from the perimeter fence that ran along the terrace would make excellent blockades for the doors and windows. With the assortment of nails taken from said fence, the old furniture milling about the house, and what was left lying around in the shed, Monty had enough to fortify his new abode. It would take the rest of the day before he had boarded up his safe house sufficiently.

While looking through the house, Monty had found some wooden brooms, and by removing their brush heads he tied several kitchen knives onto their ends with some shoelace he scavenged from the loft, to create 3 crude spears.

As he finished affixing the last blade to its new haft, he heard the harsh rattling sound of a very poorly-maintained car pulling up the road. Quickly he made his way to the front room, and peered through the slats he had left for this purpose, and was greeted with the sight of an old looking fiat parked in front of his house.

Could these zombies drive cars? This man seemed collected enough not to be a zombie, but he couldn't be sure...

Monty made his way to the front door, and opened the mail slot slowly, as he continued to watch the man outside as he got out of his vehicle and made his way to the boot.

Definitely a human, no zombie could be so dexterous...

He had his longest spear in his hand, and he slowly removed the many wooden slats barricading the front door, and turned the key in the latch until the door was able to open.

"Hey!" Monty shouted to the stranger. The tall man seemed startled, yet frozen in place. He sprinted towards him, intending to warn him of the impending danger. Just as Monty was within arm's reach, the blood curdling scream of a hunter filled the air and from the roof opposite. It pounced down towards them with stunning speed.

Monty lunged at the stranger, knocking him to the floor and out of the path of the howling hunter. Both of them were on the floor as the hunter landed in front of them, now between them and the safe house. They both recovered quickly, while the hunter managed to get up onto its feet and right itself, ready to press the attack. But Monty had just barely found his feet. The hunter, obviously starved, was mindless in its hunger. It pounced towards Monty but he managed to use his newly crafted spear to drive the blade straight through the chest of the hunter as it advanced. Monty kept trying to drive the spear through the hunter's body, a swift thrust caught it in the chest again and the hunter stumbled back, struggling in vain. A bullet fired from over Monty's shoulder went straight through the hunter's eye and hit the brick wall behind, splattering putrefied grey matter onto the weathered stone. The hunter died instantly and Monty emitted a wavering sigh as he let the hunter fall, and he pulled his spear out in one violent motion.

Monty turned, grabbed the stranger by his shirt, and pulled him into the safe house, pushed him inside with all his strength so the strange man almost lost his balance, before shutting the door and barricading it once more.

The house was now dark again, and the screams of zombies were heard in the distance.

Before the darkness swallowed them, Monty was gifted with a brief glimpse of the man's uniformed chest, adorned with patches of all colors and variations. One above all the others caught his eye, which bore the soldier's name in crudely sewn letters. Harold.

Harold was lost; he honestly didn't know how it had happened...

He had come to this wicked place to meet with the rest of The Reenactors Militia in the derelict old neighborhood that The Director had called home. He pulled up to the alley they had decided upon in a European car, azure blue and diminutive. It was dusk, about 5:00 PM by his watch. The sun was barely peeking over the dirty roofs of the aging brick structures that these Swedes used as homes. He stopped at about the end of the alley, and parked.

As the coughing engine died down he slapped on his helmet, bearing The Reenactors insignia. A white kite shield set in front of two crossed m16s against a black, circular background. Below this are three Latin words etched in gold paint that read as follows. _Liberatio,Praemunitio, et Judicium; _Liberation, Protection, and Judgment. He himself was already in full uniform, including the mandatory level II Kevlar vest. After a quick test slap to his armored chest, he stepped out of the car. His black boots, having been polished to a high sheen, glowed orange as they hit the pavement and their rubber soles ground against the gravel.

He took a quick look around, and let loose a dejected sigh. This place was abandoned. He knew that despite of his low status in the organization, but to not be told of such a sudden change would be outrageous.

"Am I lost? Again?" He sighed once more, a wispy, irritating sound. He shook his head as he made his way to the back of his car. He turned to open the trunk, and fought with the stainless steel handle for a few seconds before finally wrenching it ajar with a grunt of exertion.

It opened to reveal a cluttered mess. Amongst the assorted piles of refuse was a loaded M44 Mosin Nagant carbine, strewn carelessly over several olive green cans of surplus ammunition. Beside it sat a Remington 870 .12 gauge shotgun, also loaded. Masses of fast food rubbish and sweat-drenched clothing threatened to consume his weaponry, but he had to make do. He was living right in this little rental after all.

A soft belch parted his lips, the iffy smell causing his nose to furrow with disapproval. He reached out and grabbed his rifle with a gloved hand, running his thumb along the nice new scratch in the dented laminate stock. Her name was Katyusha, after the deuteragonist of the famous Russian wartime song.

"Suppose I'll have to wait with you old girl," He muttered, a small smile playing on the edge of his crusty lips as he extended the bayonet, securing it with a sharp _click._

As he tinkered with his rifle, he was completely oblivious to the events unfolding around him. All the while a hunter was eyeing him hungrily. Long tendrils of drool ran down its chin from between rotten teeth, it ran its claws against the ledge it was perched upon. His unwitting prey was an easy target. With the poise of a lioness on the hunt, the beast prepared to pounce from high on the roof directly behind him.

"Hey!" Somebody shouted. Before he even had time to turn, this stranger with a wild look in his eyes and a makeshift spear in hand leapt onto him and floored him with ease. Before he even had time to utter an infuriated response, he found himself being pulled about like a rag-doll as this man attempted to drag him to one of the nearby homes.

Now Harold would have struggled fiercely under normal circumstances; he detested kidnappers after all, and had his rifle in hand. However, this was not anything that could be defined, and no life experience that he possessed could be called upon to rationalize this attack. Finally, with enough anger fueling his tongue to waggle, he sputtered out a few words.

"What the hell man? Let me go," He began, his voice hoarse, "Let me go, or I'll-"

He stopped, mid-sentence as he regained his vision and caught sight of why this dude was grabbing him. They were being attacked by this grotesque... creature.

It looked human, but certainly didn't act human, that's for sure...it was almost like a wild animal in its nature. This was the enemy. Though he had skimmed through the training manual several times and heard firsthand accounts, he always brushed the tales aside as hysteria. Not anymore though.

With a yelp of surprise he leapt to his feet, instinctively bringing the firearm to his shoulder in one sloppy motion as he pulled the trigger.

The thunderous explosion of the sonic boom that heralded the destruction of his foe was absolutely deafening. Harold found himself temporarily robbed of his hearing for a short time afterward. The whole neighborhood reverberated with the harsh, high pitched _crack _of the high-caliber round tearing through the sound barrier, a sharp enough to put even the speedy bullwhip to shame. The conical bullet wasted no time in greeting the forehead with a hearty slap of its copper tip, burrowing through the comparatively soft tissues of the brain to be reacquainted with the back of the fiend's skull.

The creature's head literally exploded in a shower of blood, bone fragments, and brain matter as the ballistic weapon did its gruesome work.

After being tossed into the dark and rather dank house, he nearly fell flat on his ass as he took what little time he had to survey his new surroundings. His eyes first turned on the makeshift barricade. Shoddily build, but better than nothing. He shot a glare of indignation at his attacker-turned-hero.

"What the hell was that _thing?_" He whispered more to himself than his savior. He tried to keep the fear out of his voice, but his whole body quaked from the adrenaline that was actively pumping through his veins. Throughout all this he had kept a white knuckled grip on his rifle, which was now empty, thanks to his own inattentiveness. He neglected to reload his rifle after his last encounter, leaving only one bullet in the chamber, whose casing he ejected with a flick of his wrist. He walked over to the barricade, and liberally peeked out. Another one of those creatures, perhaps its mate, had leapt from its respective hiding spot to gaze at its partner's corpse.

_'Good,_' He thought, _'at least it isn't touching my stuff…'_

He turned back to the man who did him the great service of saving his life, adopting a look of false bravery as he did so. Though Harold's dark eyes betrayed his true emotions of apprehension.

"I need to get out there and get some ammo. You got a gun with you?" He was prepared to kill this creature with his bare hands if he had to, although he had never attempted to wield his rifle as a close combat weapon, and its sturdiness was questionable.

"You're a bloody mad man," Monty stated rather matter of factly.

"We killed one, I don't know where that other zombie came from but there must be more nearby. We should wait for it to lose interest and leave. Don't worry, it has no use for ammunition or anything you might have in your car,"

Monty let the mail slot he was looking out of close slowly and quietly, the hallway got darker as the beam of light was slowly shut dipping below the roofs.

"Welcome to my castle!" Monty said rather sarcastically, he put his arms up, and held them in a gesture that conveyed the statement, "look at what I own". He smiled as he inspected at a glance the hall they were standing in.

"All the windows have been boarded up, the backdoor has been reinforced and we will sleep in the loft, it's the safest place considering our modest defenses." Monty continued to talk as he strolled through to the kitchen, where tins of food had been stacked neatly atop one another, and the remainder of his spears leant up against the wall. The kitchen smelt of dampness and mildew, it was dark and only a few slivers of light shone through into the room and fell across the floor and up the side of the cabinets.

"We will wait for that zombie to leave, and then get your things from the car. You should put your things up in the loft, if the boarded windows give way and we get rushed, there will be no time to save anything," Monty walked into the front room, and collapsed into a dusty chair, his arms along the rests; he let his head tilt back onto the top of the chair and closed his eyes.

Harold scoffed, ignoring Monty's warning as he began to wantonly pry the boards off of the front door.

"This is all fine and well, but if these, these 'zombies' are really out to get us, then you need a gun and I need my ammo," He stared out at the lone zombie that stood between him and his bounty, and then back to the man who had practically saved his life and then back to the car once more. That thing was approaching the trunk, probably having caught the scent of week-old clothes drenched in sweat. Its back was turned to him. This was his chance.

"See you in hell mate," He said with a chuckle. With an ungainly shove of his hand, he flung open the door. Still mentally unprepared to face this bizarre foe, he thoughtlessly dashed out towards the zombie, rifle held out in from of him like a spear. His boots slamming hard against the pavement as he rushed forward, the surplus helmet bobbed up and down erratically, partially obscuring his vision.

Before the zombie could turn to face him, Harold sped past, whipping his rifle to the side and slamming the iron butt of it into the back of the zombie's head as he did. _Cra-thunk!_ Sounded its hollow skull as the blow connected. The impact was so forceful that it collapsed the zombie's skull, and floored it without much of a fuss.

"Awesome!" He cried with unnecessary exuberance, before backtracking for the gaping maw of the trunk. He was prepared to plunder the treasures held within. Instinctively he began shoveling cans of ammunition into his pants. Stuffing the cans into his pockets, attempting to fill any recess with sweet brass. His fatigues noticeably sagged, and they hung off of his narrow frame even more so, but he cared not. All that mattered to him was the ammunition. Lastly, he went about to shouldering the shotgun, its weight reassuring him. He gave a passing glance to the butt of his rifle, taking quick notice of a large, scarlet stained indentation that had damaged the varnish. What an unsightly spot! Shitty zombie had the gall to bleed on his rifle; a collector's piece no less!

He grunted, preparing to make his way back to the refugee when he felt something grab his leg. He instinctively bristled at the surprising strength of the grip. He shot an inquisitive look down towards his feet, and he saw that offender was none other the zombie. He yelled in surprise and horror as he struggled to get his foot out of the macabre creature's iron grasp. Dropping his shotgun like an utter boob in the process, as he fumbled with the button of one of his vest pockets.

It groaned in response, its nearly flattened head tilted at an awkward angle as it tried to sink its teeth into Harold's juicy leg. Harold, however, would not have any of that, and with a small feat of prestidigitation, he flicked the button off of his ammo pouch. Ramming his boot into the creature's gaping mouth, he had already loaded his rifle, taken aim, and – **CRACK-BOOOM!**

The rifle's report echoed throughout the small ghetto, alerting every zombie in the area of what was occurring. Harold cursed, shaking his head as the loud ringing sound kicked in. He wasn't wearing his ear-plugs, but at least he was alive. The zombie, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. Its entire head was reduced to a stain on the floor, and its hands relinquished their control of his leg. Harold grabbed the rest of his stuff. Plucked his shotgun from the moistened ground, and trudged back. A ludicrous grin stamped onto his face, now grimy with the blood and brain matter of his two fresh kills. A triumphant look filled Harold's normally emotionless eyes, his body aquiver with the residual adrenaline. He carried his reclaimed luggage as though it was a world cup trophy or something similar.

The loud noise of Harold's discharging rifle echoed through the nearby streets, where several zombies wandered aimlessly. They were awaiting the opportunity to have some fresh meat. The sound disrupted their usual trancelike state, as they turned towards the source of the disturbance and immediately started moving. Slowly at first, but when a second blast rang in their ears the beasts began sprinting, a wild hunger blazing in their hollow eyes. A Tank who had been bashing some hapless zombie's head into a bloody pulp for the sake of entertainment also heard, and followed the ever growing pack of shambling bodies like a doting mother would her young. A low roar tore forth from its hardly visible throat as it casually flung his fellows this way and that, clearing a path for itself. It wouldn't take long for them to arrive at the source of the struggle, and the little shelter of the two men was soon to be filled with a gang of zombies, led by a Tank.

"You bloody idiot!" Monty grabbed Harold by the collar with both hands and threw him back into the house, a strange sense of familiarity filled Monty as he once again saved this man's life. Although he would rather Harold perishes at the hands of the very horde he had summoned, Monty needed the extra help or stamp out with this foolish soldier had wrought.

He turned around quickly and slammed the door shut, all the while he fought to once again re-apply the wooden barricades, and hopefully allow them to do their job. Perhaps the biggest danger to their survival was not the teeming horde of zombies on their way to rough them up, but their own carelessness. Or rather his new friends utter disregard for any sort of logic, which was about to get them killed.

"We're going to be surrounded! Grab the bottles of gas from the kitchen and get up to the loft, _now!_" Monty shouted at the top of his voice, their position was given away anyway, so he didn't care how much noise they now made.

"GET MOVING!" Monty ran into the kitchen and grabbed his old friend crowbar and the rest of his crude spears and ran upstairs, but not before taking one of bottles of gas with him. He certainly hoped Harold was smart enough to do the same.

Monty, although fearing for his life, had formulated a plan already that would ensure their continued survival for at least a few moments more than he expected.

All he needed was for Harold to meet him in the loft with the spare gas canisters from the kitchen, and to bring his rifle.

Harold still refused to be aware of their dire situation, or the fact that he was the cause of it. When Monty issued the order he merely shrugged incredulously. Harold grabbed two of the small tanks of propane as Monty had prescribed, and followed him closely up the creaking stairs towards the loft.

He set the surprisingly weighty tanks on the topmost step, a hop skip and a jump away from the ladder leading up to Monty's impromptu keep. Harold stopped only to tighten his helmet's leather chin strap, and cycle his rifle's action. The brass fell to the floor with a light ringing sound, still warm from its recent firing. He grimaced as the zombies stifled groans and shrieks carried to his ears from the street below.

Harold had no real fear of these creatures. They were rather simple to kill, and it's not like it would be considered murder. They were already dead, so at least he would not be condemned to hell for resigning them back to their graves. He hobbled over to the drop before the loft, shutting the door behind him as he did. Gazing up at his newfound comrade, Harold placed the tanks onto the floor once more.

"Dude, catch," He said as he casually un-slung his shotgun, and tossed it towards Monty.

"It doesn't have a safety, so be careful bro," He also tossed a box of shells along with it, taking a speed-loader and readying his rifle for the coming battle. Harold then casually entered the loft, skittering up the ladder with a rifle in one hand, and the gas in the other.

"What now, Chief?" He asked with a hint of sarcasm. A small, humorless grin found its way onto his lips.

Monty caught the shotgun; he hadn't even handled a gun before, let alone fired one...

"We can use these gas canisters as explosives to kill some of those zombies!" Monty shouted as Harold made his way up to the loft. He used the butt of the shotgun to make some holes in the tiled roof so he could see out into the front, he could see a number of the faster zombies beginning to come in to view, and the Tank would not be far behind.

"I hope this works, man," Monty said as Harold worked his way up the ladder. The moment Harold moved out of the way, Monty pulled the ladder up and cast it aside. By removing the caps on the gas canisters, he tore up some material to make a kind of fuse for them, he set them down near the hole in the roof; three in total.

"We should be able to handle the less threatening zombies with the guns, but those Tanks will need something special," Monty said, as he continued to look out the hole in the roof. By now, seven zombies had made their way to the front of the house and Monty aimed his shotgun. Not really knowing what he was doing, he fired directly into the swarmed mass as they bottle-necked at the front entrance to the yard.

"Christ!" Monty thought he said, as the ringing in his ears pretty much blocked out all other sound. He had gripped the gun so tightly it had thrown him back a little; the recoil was quite hostile towards the soft flesh of his now aching shoulder. He peered through the hole to see the damage. A few of the zombies were either missing a limb or two, bleeding from puckered holes in their chests, or were sent to the floor, but none had died yet.

He looked down the street and a Tank was heading their way, the commotion apparently attracting a wayward Smoker as well.

Before Monty had time to recollect himself, the zombies had made their way to the front door and he could hear them scratching and beating at it. They had been joined by three more zombies that had come from the other side of the street.

"We can use these canisters to kill those bigger zombies, as long as we can hold off these weaker ones until they get close enough," He looked back at Harold who was fidgeting with his rifle, fixing or adjusting something, who knows... but as Monty turned back to look at the approaching Tank, the sound of splintered wood signaled the front door giving way, and followed by the screaming zombies sprinting up the stairs. It was akin to a herd of cattle stampeding through the house.

"Get ready! If there is any time to be trigger happy, it's now!"


	2. IHIH pt 2: The Battle

IN A HOUSE, IN A HEARTBEAT…

PART 2: THE BATTLE

Harold could hear them ascend the stairs. Their feet sounded like the frantic beat of his weary heart as hundreds of them piled into the foyer, and clogged the hall in a wave of hanging flesh and gnarled bone. With the sheer weight of their combined mass the zombies ripped the door leading to the loft from its hinges, and heedlessly trampled it. Harold peered down at where the ladder stood prior to take note of the progress this unwarranted invasion had made, and saw that the creatures had gathered at the drop below. They gazed up with sightless white eyes and vile, gaping maws filled with jagged teeth that gnashed. Their blood-soaked claws were outstretched and contorted in a malicious fashion, as if they sought to catch the human above in a murderous embrace if he were to make a misstep and fall. Harold had yet to see how quickly these things could shear the skin from bone, but knew well enough not to risk a closer inspection.

He shivered in spite of himself, and spat down at them with distaste.

"Disgusting animals," He muttered, and without so much as a backwards glance ran over to Monty's position as he heard the shotgun blast. The ringing in his ears had become louder and more insistent now. Harold looked out the window that Monty had had the foresight to create with his shotgun, and saw hordes of the buggers in the lawn. This was nothing that could not be easily dealt with, given time and ample ammunition. Both of which were in the survivor's possession. He dredged up some courage from his already depleting reserves, and gazed out with mock confidence at the approaching horde.

His false sense of security was unfounded, however. Harold nearly lost control of his bowels when he caught sight of the muscle-bound behemoth galloping up the street upon two gargantuan fists, which left in their wake potholes of crumbled blacktop about the width and depth of a fully inflated basketball.

The whole structure shook violently with every impact of those steel knuckles against the unprepared pavement. To Harold the monstrosity looked like one of those macabre caricatures of Arnold Schwarzenegger or something like that, with arms at least three times as thick as his torso, and no neck to speak of at all. Its bellowing roar pierced the cacophony of the pitched battle, and spurred the nonplussed reenactor into action.

Harold shouldered his rifle once more. The iron capped butt made contact with his already bruise riddled shoulder, and he winced involuntarily. He took careful aim at the beast's head, which was the size of a pin's relative to its immeasurable body mass, and pulled the trigger. Another stunning blow to his beleaguered eardrums, but hopefully just as damaging to that that demonic being below.

The sound was deafening to begin with, but even more so within the cramped loft. Multiplied by his bell-shaped helmet's echoing properties, he staggered back, his feet fought for traction as he nearly lost his balance. Harold's equilibrium was already compromised by the barrage of sound, and the recoil shocked and nearly sent him spinning to the floor like a leaf in autumn.

The round missed its mark, and instead struck the beast in the rippling shoulder. Mere inches away from its head, though a cascade of rotten blood fell openly from its wound.

He chambered another round, and with an impassioned plea to whatever deity would pay him mind, fired once more. This time Harold aimed for its right shoulder, assuming that the shot would drift to the left once more. Sure enough it followed the course of its sister, and struck the creature right betwixt the eyes. Blood and brain matter flew from the hole in a gushing fountain of unrivaled grotesquery, but it shrugged off the wound as if it were not but an insect bite. The thing did not even skip a beat; no puny rifle could hinder this juggernaut's stride.

"What the fuck?" Harold screamed, starting to feel the pressure of being nigh helpless in a dire situation such as this. A deepening sense of foreboding sunk in as well, which created a caustic emotional mixture within him.

"It'll take more than that, mate!" Monty shouted, not sure of how loud he should speak because of the ringing that currently occupied his ears.

Monty picked up one of the canisters and lit the cloth coming out of the top; he let the flame take hold before throwing it at the Tank. As the canister made its way to the Tank, a long, fleshy colored rope came from out of view, it was a Smoker. By the time the Smoker had pulled back his tongue, the canister exploded. The entire front of this grotesque zombie was completely torn asunder, leaving an empty, caved out shell of a body to fall limply to the floor in a smoldering heap of ash and decrepit flesh.

"Jesus Christ!" Monty exclaimed, still shouting as Harold kept firing rounds from just behind him into the Tank who was starting to take interest in the parked car.

Monty turned to see a zombie holding onto the wooden surrounds of the hatch of the loft, he picked up the shotgun and fired a shot directly at the zombie's head. It exploded like when you see a watermelon dropped from a height, with red matter splattering everywhere. He ran to the latch and fired another shot into the contorted faces of the numerous zombies trying to support each other up into the loft, they fell back, riddled with holes and missing various limbs.

"Watch out for that Tank!" Monty exclaimed.

"Use the rest of those canisters, and don't miss!" Monty went back to firing into the zombie horde, and when his ammunition was spent he grabbed his longest spear, and began thrusting it indiscriminately into the zombies below.

"How can that be?" he shouted back in response, ejecting the last shell, and now loading his rifle with blanks.

He closed the bolt with a muted _clack!_, and out of one of his luggage crates, produced a strange tube.

It was a rifle-grenade adaptor. He folded his bayonet back, and slid the tube on, tightening it with a wing-nut on the side, and then taking a second tube, he attached the propane tank to it, and took aim at the Tank, who was closing the gap quickly, already a few feet away from his car.

"Cover your ears!" He screamed, readying himself for the explosion as well. The Tank was ready to heft the car for a throw…

"Fire in the hole!" He gave the trigger a firm squeeze.

With a muffled sort of cough, the canister went spinning off the barrel of the rifle, and slammed into the cars side. The canister detonated, and then the whole car.

The explosion rattled Harold's bones as he watched chunks of flesh rain down on the pavement, and heard the wet, sticky thuds as body parts fell on the roof as well. The Tank's disembodied legs were still trying to move forward, writhing on the floor.

Harold grinned, ejecting the shells, and reloading with some soft-point.

"Whooo!" The whole house seemed to shake as Monty had held onto one of the roof's support beams, his legs seemed to lose rigidity and he fell backwards. Reaching out to try and hold onto one of the beams to stop himself falling he kept falling, confused as he knew he should have hit the floor by now, but he had fallen through a weaker part of the floor in the loft, and now found himself landing rather clumsily on the side of a double bed, before flipping over onto the floor on his face.

Luckily the door to the room was already shut, Monty took this precaution, not knowing whether zombies had the dexterity to open doors or not…

The hole in the bedroom ceiling was rather large, and some of his crude spears had fallen down, including his crowbar that lay in a pile of dust on one of the pillows.

Monty, just about regaining his senses stood up, took a moment to collect himself before remembering the situation he found himself in. separated from Harold, the last zombie on the other side of that thin wooden door. He didn't know if Harold was alive, if the zombie was alive, or if either of them knew if he was alive. He grabbed his crowbar from the bed and put his ear to the door to listen for any movement.

The loft was quiet now; the explosion was still ringing slightly in his ears. He heard a sound from the other side of the door, a heavy breathing, and the door handle began to turn...

Monty took a deep breath, he had to take the chance, it was too risky to possibly let a zombie get into the room, so he raised his crowbar, and drove the straight end straight through one of the weak panels in the door, and hit something on the other side. A loud screech confirmed Monty's hope, and the last zombie in the house slumped to the floor.

Harold peered down the newly-formed hole after the drywall clouds cleared, for some reason he hadn't heard the crash, only felt the floors buckle beneath him, and although he was not quite sure how the hell that had happened, though he was sure about one thing:

He wanted to go home.

"Hey Monty! You ok?" He hollered, not waiting for a response as he grabbed all his ammo, and leapt down the hole, landing on his feet and rolling forward, and landing face first into the floor.

Getting back to his feet, he grinned at his friend, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"We did good man."

He bashed the hinges of the door with his multi-tool of a rifle, and walked outside…

"Awfully sorry about the mess old boy!" Monty said, as he recovered his crowbar from the eye socket of the zombie that lay twitching on the floor. Driving the crowbar back into the zombie's head, the zombie went instantly limp. Monty walked over to Harold, patting him on the shoulder.

Returning to the zombie, Monty put his foot on the zombie and he wrenched the crowbar out of its head, and wiped it clean on the bed sheets.

"We need to move, quickly. This place will be crawling with zombies any moment now. Grab any ammunition you need but don't over burden yourself, we won't be doing any shooting for a long time if we plan to get out of this city alive."

Monty collected the two spears that had fallen through the floor of the loft, went downstairs and put as much as he could into his bag, holding his crowbar in his hand.

Making his way to the front door entrance the street was deafly quiet, there were no zombies around for the moment, and they would have a few minutes to get out of the area. As Monty reached the front entrance he looked back at Harold…

"Ready?" Harold shuddered a bit as he watched Monty go at the zombie with the crowbar.

_"I certainly hope that won't be me anytime soon…" _He thought as his gaze switched from the ravaged corpse and followed Monty to the door.

"Ready?" He stepped forward.

"You got it chief!" He said with a grin, starting to remove his rifle-grenade adaptor and re-folding his bayonet to the ready position, he headed out the door, walking over the still cadavers of the recently killed zombies. He caught sight of the crushed, charred shell that had been his rental car at one point.

"Aw man!" He said with a groan, nearly dropping his rifle.

"There goes my bloody deposit…" He sighed, sticking his pinky finger in his ear to get an itch that had been bugging him. He turned around again, looking for his shotgun. Monty didn't have it. It was nowhere to be seen.

"Monty, where is my shotgun?"

"Shit!"

"I thought you picked it up on your way down from the loft..." Monty looked back up at the hole in the roof, and then looked back at Harold, then looked back at the roof once more...

"Goddamn it!" Monty exclaimed, as he sprinted back into the house to retrieve the gun.

For what seemed like forever, Monty darted as quick as he could up to the bedroom, in the hope it had fallen down with him, and there in the corner, propped up as if it had been put there purposefully, was the now dust covered shotgun.

Monty was back outside, and handed the gun to Harold.

"We need to leave, now," Monty looked up the street, it wasn't much distance to the railway line, which was now visible as it bridged over the houses, and started to cross the river.

"We need to get onto that bridge, it will be safer there. We can then follow the line out of town, and if we're lucky we might actually find a train,"

Monty said, the sense of hope was rising in his voice.

"Let's go." The pair started to run quickly to the end of the street, where they would climb up the bridge supports and make their away across the river by the bridge.


	3. IHIH pt 3: The Bridge

IN A HOUSE, IN A HEARTBEAT…

PART 3: THE BRIDGE

"Oh…My…God!" Harold exclaimed an expression of horror on his pale features as he caught sight of his freshly salvaged shotgun. He went over to it, desperate to examine his battered gun as a traumatized mother might her long-lost child.

It was horrid, at least to Harold, who immediately and wordlessly snatched the firearm from Monty's grasp. It was coated in a white powdering of drywall, which he promptly brushed off, and then the real damage sank in.

The stock wasn't too badly damaged; just a few scratches, and a gouge or two in the wood on the grip as well. The real problem, however, was the receiver.

It was bent, the thin metal warped slightly dented on the inside, He tried the pump; it was stuck.

"Shit in a barrel." He muttered, shaking the rifle. He heard a clattering about.

"Bad news Monty," he said with a solemn sigh, "The receiver's spring is dislodged. Unless we get to a safe place to fix it, I guess you can use it as a club or something."

He handed it back to him.

Monty looked towards the bridge he had hoped to get across, admittedly he hadn't planned to be escaping from his safe house anytime soon, but recent events had turned his fortress into a veritable bomb site.

He looked back at Harold, who seemed to hold his battered shotgun like an injured child, then back up at the bridge, where the big orange sun was beginning to sink behind the metal supports of the bridge.

The two of them were standing at the T junction at the end of the street.

"I don't know what you are thinking, but hunting zombies and gallivanting through a zombie ridden city is not my cup of tea; I'm getting out of here, you can either come with me or go your own way..."

Monty turned back towards Harold.

"We don't have much time; we need to get to the train station before it gets dark." A cold wind had swept up, and the smell of burning zombie matter had filled the air, this would only attract more zombies.

Monty reached his hand out for the Shotgun, with an apologetic look towards Harold.

Harold nodded to Monty wordlessly, he un-slung his rifle, and started off in the direction that he assumed that the train-yard would be located in, dragging his feet amongst the gravel and body-parts, giving his freshly polished boots an even fresher coating of blood and puss, that smelled absolutely like what he thought a full septic tank on a humid day probably smelled like.

He shivered, the frigid wind tickling his neck, coaxing the hairs on the exposed back to stand at attention. He peered up at the sky, night was fast approaching, and he didn't exactly have a flash-light or anything like that. If he got caught in the dark, he was surely fucked.

"Come on then Monty," He called without even turning to face him. "We want to make it to sunrise, right?"

_"I wonder if I'll be dead before then…"_ Harold thought to himself, stroking his rifle's stock affectionately.

Monty jogged to catch up with Harold, and as he tapped Harold on the elbow, they began to run

"We can't hang around Harold, we need to move fast." The cold air was like breathing in pins; his lungs began to ache as they usually did in the cold weather.

Monty tried to run as quietly as possible, but the entire area was quiet, not a sound apart from the footprints on crumbling tarmac.

They reached the concrete base of the bridge's first truss support, and it was a little taller than Harold, who was in turn, a bit taller than Monty.

"This shouldn't be a problem." Monty muttered quietly, trying to make as little sound as possible.

He turned to Harold, who was surveying the support himself, measuring it up.

As he was doing so, he barely noticed Monty take off his bag with his equipment in, and throw it up onto the ledge on the support.

He then took his crowbar, jumped and managed to dig the crowbar into the top of the support, making a cracking sound as the hook end embedded into the already decaying concrete. Using it to pull himself up, the crowbar embedded a bit further into the support, and Monty scrambled onto the support.

"Pass me your things." Monty said, putting his arm out to take Harold' stuff.

As he took Harold' bag, he turned around and put it down, and by the time he looked back, Harold had got himself up onto the support and was proceeding to remove the crowbar from the crumbling support.

Monty put his bag back on and did the straps up tightly, and began to climb. The metal lattice work of the bridge was damp and freezing cold, he could feel the blood in his hands retreat back up his arms. Knowing this was his survival however, Monty continued to climb, with Harold not far behind.

The wind was picking up now, and the lattice work of the bridge was no shelter. The wind blew straight at them, freezing their hands and their faces as they struggled to climb up the side of the bridge. Monty could see through the iron beams that the sun was glowing more orange, and slightly bigger, even though it was already beginning to set behind the tall buildings ahead, somewhere to the North East.

For what seemed like forever, the pair climbed, being lashed by wind, and a light drizzle that had started to fall which only made things more perilous.

Upon reaching the top, Monty pulled himself onto the surface of the bridge, and collapsed on his back with his bag by his side, completely exhausted, looking up at the pink sky where stars were already becoming visible. He thought he could hear gun shots in the distance, but was too tired to be sure.

Harold lay on his back, panting, cold sweat beading on his face and gently sliding down his cheek to the cold, concrete floor. His body ached all over, especially his back; that bullet-proof vest wasn't too kind on Harold's back; to him it felt as though he had a permanent backboard strapped onto him. A heavy, sweaty backboard. He exhaled; face red with exertion after the heavy climb, but slowly paling back to its normal, unhealthy color. He tilted his helmeted head to face Monty, a small grin on his lips.

"Awesome…" He muttered, getting to his feet, and hopping down onto the road. He peered upwards at the sky. They were losing daylight fast, and needed to get to this train-station now. He could hear very brief gun shots, 'Other survivors.' He thought, trying to gauge the distance between the sound and where he was standing. It sounded far away to begin with, let alone-

Something interrupted his train of thought. The not-too-distance crying of a child. He cocked his head to his left, and in the middle of the road, was a pale figure, kneeling, head in hands. It was a human female at one point, a teenage girl, its budding breasts still kept within a tattered bra, her long white hair dipping below her bra line, matted and covered in mud it appeared. Her face was hidden within her hands. _Those hands._

They looked like something out of a Tim-Burton movie…Edward scissor-hands to be exact. Long, grotesque fingernails, coated in a fresh layer of blood, which was pooled about her, he, could see it now in the reflection of the retreating sun.

This thing looked like a witch, the ones from the fairy-tales.

He un-slung his rifle, peering down the sights, aiming for her.

"Monty..Monty!" He hissed, not removing his eyes from this disgusting creature.

"Go on then, get out of here, and get to the train-station." Monty looked through his small spy glass; he followed the rusted tracks right up to the train station. He noticed the burnt out rail car and continued to look around the area, not really paying much attention to it.

"Perfect." Monty said as lowered the spyglass.

Monty turned back towards the bridge, and Harold was aiming down the sight of his rifle at the crouched figure. His stomach lurched at what he knew was coming.

"Harold!" Monty tried to shout, but whisper at the same time trying to get his attention without startling the curled up figure.

Monty started to run towards Harold, as quietly as he could, he couldn't let this happen, they had come too far for it to finish like this and it wasn't necessary. Monty was trying to run as fast as he could without making too much noise, pleading in his mind, whispering under his breath

"No, don't, for God's sake don't do it…." Harold ignored Monty entirely, and without hesitation, pulled the trigger on his rifle.

**CRACK!-BOOOM!**

The bullet took it directly in the chest, hurling it a full two feet, sending it skidding across the concrete.

Harold grinned a smug grin, cycling the action with ease, and charging the next round forward, he eagerly turned back to face Monty.

"…And that is how we do things-" Before he could continue, something howled, and leapt onto him, flooring him with a loud _Ping!_ Of his helmeted head colliding with the concrete, and a ragged cry of surprise from himself as all the wind was let out of his lungs. The witch was surprisingly strong for its size, and he slammed into the ground again and again as the thing bashed his chest, thankfully armored, into the ground still clutching his rifle in a death-grip. As he struggled to get free of its grasp he instinctively pulled the trigger, the thunderous boom echoed within his helmet, and agitated the creature on his back even more, its feral screeches getting more insistent.

He tried to face his attacker, who was busily slashing at his back, also thankfully covered by the vest, shredding the multiple layers of fabric, and soon, tearing at the Kevlar that shielded him just beneath.

With a sudden surge of strength and courage brought on by the adrenaline now coursing through his veins, Harold flung his arms back, in hopes that the rifle butt would catch the creature in the face, which it did, and with a hollow Clunk! The butt collided full-force with the creature's head, knocking a few of its rotten teeth out of its jaw and onto the street. By now the Witch, who was now in a state of blind fury, let out a primal howl as it hefted Harold bodily up above its head, and flung him against one of the roadblocks lined up along the bridge.

For a moment, he was suspended in the air, limbs flapping like a ducks wings, and then as time caught up with him, he collided with the roadblock with blinding speed, he felt something crack and a sudden numbness in his right arm, his helmet now dented in multiple spots, back torn to ribbons, and as he tried to cycle his rifles action again, he realized that his rifle had suddenly developed sticky bolt syndrome on him. His body was drained of all energy, and he was starting to see spots, his vision swimming.

He held the bayonet before him, and thrust as the beast eagerly came forward, catching it in the gut, and twisting hard.

It squealed, dark crimson blood dripping out of its new, screwdriver-looking hole, its limbs waved, its claws wacked the bayonet hard, snapping the antiquated metal in two. Shards went deep into Harold's bloodied face. It plucked the piece stuck within her out without even flinching, and Harold swore that just before he passed out, he saw that thing smiling a toothless, bloody smile, its soulless eyes glowing red. _Smiling._


End file.
